Stranger Than Your Sympathy
by fabala-fae
Summary: Because we all knew she was going to call *someone*...two post-scenes to BaS
1. Possible scene 1

Title: Stranger Than Your Sympathy  
  
Disclaimer: Not mine. Or so I make you believe. The trick of the puppeteer is to make the puppets think they control their dance . . .  
  
Song: "Sympathy" by the Goo Goo Dolls  
  
Spoilers: Well, uh, if the summary didn't make it clear: through "Brothers and Sisters." All other spoilers in the post scenes are merely proof of how psychic I knew I always was – or some damn lucky guesses on my part.  
  
Summary: Because we all knew she was going to call *someone* . . . two possible post-scenes after "Brothers and Sisters."  
  
Note: This is the first possible post-scene.  
  
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Stranger than your sympathy  
  
And this is my apology  
  
I killed myself from the inside out  
  
And all my fears have pushed you out  
  
------------------------------------------------------  
  
The sound of a violent clatter caused Abby to sit up in bed abruptly. For a long, tense moment she listened, scanning the silence for another noise, any indication that he was back. Yet there was nothing more, and exasperated, Abby sank back onto the bed. This was what, the third time her heart had stopped at the sound of a rustle outside her apartment? True, each time she never really woke up – it's impossible to wake up if you never really went to sleep in the first place.  
  
No. Screw this. She wasn't getting any sleep anyway, not as long as her nerves were completely shot – and the fact that the bumps in the night only seemed to be becoming louder and louder didn't help. Angrily she tore back the covers and swung her legs over the side of the bed. Pulling on her old white sweater, she found that she was too annoyed at this point to consider what exactly pissed her off more – the fact that she was being kept awake, or the fact that she simply couldn't get to sleep. True, they sounded one in the same, but right now they were incredibly different . . .  
  
Slowly, methodically, she tightened each of the locks on her door, her fingers gently grazing the newly replaced chain. Half-heartedly she checked the peephole for what seemed like the tenth time that night . . . still nothing. The grip of fear was waning, but as in the past, it usually took some assistance for Abby to truly relax.  
  
She flopped onto the sofa and found herself staring at a sight that had only grown more familiar in the moonlight of the last few months. Admittedly, it had been quite a while since she'd seen the bottle half empty – waste not, want not, was the joyous credo that always flashed into her mind as she tipped her head to finish the last drop. But now, when the mere thought of its bittersweet taste was enough to make her crave the smooth glass on her lips, she tucked her chin into the crook of her arm and gently pushed the bottle away.  
  
Goddamn Carter. He had to stick his nose where it didn't belong, making accusations he knew nothing about, putting words in her head that were impossible to forget . . .  
  
Though Abby really couldn't pick out any specific things he'd said to her all day. It wasn't that she hadn't been listening . . . well, all right, it was . . . but it felt like he'd said it all before. Even though he'd only known about it for a day now, it felt like she'd already heard the same things in her head, in his voice, in that vaguely concerned yet mildly disappointed tone only Carter could truly accomplish.  
  
The more time passed, the more disappointed that voice sounded, and the more bottles it took to really shut it up.  
  
The one thing Abby could not erase from her mind was the burned image of Carter's face when he'd seen the bottle. He'd been stricken yet indignant; horrified yet concerned; there were questions behind his eyes and Abby hadn't had the answers for him. She'd read him and unfortunately, she knew he'd read her. And it *sucked.* Abby hated being read.  
  
Yet her taste for the drink had momentarily lapsed, and instead her hand slid to the phone. Before Abby knew what she was doing her fingers were slowly tapping out the number she'd committed to memory so long ago. To her horror it was ringing . . . to her horror she heard his groggy voice: "Hello?"  
  
Abby took a deep breath; glancing once more at the half empty beer, she murmured "Hey, Carter."  
  
"Abby? What's wrong?"  
  
Abby scowled slightly and curled onto the couch. "Nothing's wrong," she informed him. "I can't call you up to just talk any more?"  
  
"At 2 am?"  
  
"Yeah, at – never mind. I just . . . I want to talk."  
  
It was quiet on the other end, and Abby wished she knew if it was awed silence or Carter drifting off to sleep. His next words answered her question – "I'm listening."  
  
But suddenly there was too much to say and no breath to say it – at the same time there was absolutely nothing to talk about, and Abby wished she could just hang up the phone. "I'm . . . sorry for the way I acted today," Abby finally told him, mentally chastising herself – though she wasn't sure why.  
  
"You already apologized for that, Abby. You didn't shoot me. One apology's enough." There was another silence, and he added "That's not what you wanted to talk about."  
  
Abby shook her head with frustration and stared ahead at the blank television screen. She shouldn't have called Carter, he knew her too well and apparently he could read her thoughts over a goddamn telephone line.  
  
She couldn't smile him away over the phone.  
  
"It was, and now I have to go," she told him abruptly. "Got an early shift, may as well attempt to sleep."  
  
"Abby –"  
  
"I'll . . . talk to you tomorrow, all right?" she murmured quickly, and before she could hear his response she hung up the phone. Abby stared at it for a while, her fingers contemplatively sliding across the keys, before the ringing of the phone freaked her out and she quickly tossed it onto the floor.  
  
------------------------------------------------------------------  
  
And I wished for things that I don't need  
  
(All I wanted)  
  
And what I chased won't set me free  
  
(All I wanted)  
  
And I get scared but I'm not crawlin' on my knees  
  
------------------------------------------------------------------  
  
He caught her outside the hospital as she was arriving, and somehow she could sense that he'd been waiting out there for her. For a moment she wanted to pretend she didn't see him – just walk past him and pass the avoided confrontation off as a lapse in memory. But no, Carter had obviously spotted her, and as he trotted to her side Abby deeply regretted having called him.  
  
"Hey," he greeted softly.  
  
She glanced over at him and nodded slightly. "Hey."  
  
"You said you wanted to talk."  
  
Abby sighed and turned to face him just outside the ambulance bay doors. Carter definitely wasn't one for small talk these days. "I did. But now I don't."  
  
"Abby, you call me in the middle of the night, say you want to talk, then decide you have to go," he pointed out. "You obviously had something on your mind."  
  
"Yeah, well, I don't anymore," she quipped. "It was nothing anyway, I just couldn't sleep and I was bored."  
  
He watched her carefully. "Why couldn't you sleep?"  
  
"Because I . . ." Abby ran a hand through her hair and turned to stare at nothing to the side. "I've called you late at night before, and you never had a problem with it," she finally retorted.  
  
"I don't have a problem with it," he insisted. "I was glad you called. But I wish you'd open up a little more."  
  
Abby shot him a glare that was more hateful than she meant it to be. "Open up?"  
  
"Well . . . yeah. I've been there, I can relate –"  
  
"Carter, you haven't even hit your two year mark yet," Abby sighed, "if you even count it as two years. Which you shouldn't, since you haven't technically been clean for the whole two years." Even she was surprised at how nasty she'd managed to make that sound. Abby wasn't exactly known for whispering sweet nothings to people who tried to intervene in her life, but she hadn't taken such verbal low blows since . . .  
  
Well, must have been six years now.  
  
After a moment of what Abby assumed to be stunned silence, he replied "Exactly." His gaze was relentless and pleading – Abby had to turn away. "I've slipped up. I know how it feels, and I know that I can help you."  
  
Abby shook her head and began to walk away. "You don't know anything."  
  
"Just come to a meeting with me tonight, all right?" Carter called from behind her.  
  
She stopped walking; glancing around her, Abby murmured "I don't know" in a much more hushed tone than Carter's.  
  
"I'm off at 6," Carter continued. "I'll tell Kerry you have to go home sick."  
  
Abby bit her lip. "Carter, no –"  
  
"6!" he called, nodded adamantly. "All right?"  
  
Abby shrugged with what she hoped looked like indifference, but what felt like complete and utter weariness. This was just getting plain stupid. Meetings, programs . . . people needed to learn that not everything in life was so black and white. She'd had drinking problems in the past, yes, this was universally understood – but that was when she was downing entire six packs in an hour and waking up hung over every morning. A glass of wine or a few beers never hurt anyone. As long as she kept it in *moderation* That would be the key. She could do it.  
  
Abby caught sight of Luka down the hall and offered him a tight, pleasant smile. She enjoyed how Luka could be convinced with a smile that everything was all right – how he was so loyal to her "space" that she didn't even need to mask the confusion in her eyes. Damn Carter. Goddamn Carter.  
  
Luka nodded amicably in her direction, and as Abby approached him she could tell that he was watching her closely. He sensed something . . . did she forget to put on makeup this morning? Was her face really set in a frown when it felt like a smile?  
  
"You all right?"  
  
Oh, how Abby was beginning to remember how much she hated those words. "I'm fine," she assured him, shifting her purse from one shoulder to the next.  
  
He nodded, but his gaze still poured over her. "Everything go all right last night?"  
  
"It was fine. A little nerve-wracking, but fine." She smiled once again, feeling the corners of her mouth ache with overuse. "Thanks for putting the chain in, it did a lot for my peace of mind."  
  
"Then there wasn't any trouble?" Luka asked softly.  
  
"Nope. None. I'll get over my demons eventually, I guess."  
  
"No one expects you to be comfortable right away," Luka told her. "I mean, if you want me to stay over . . . if it would make you feel better . . ."  
  
Abby's eyes widened with surprise. Sure, it would be nice to have someone over there with her . . . but with Carter doting over her and her supposed "relapse," she didn't know how smart it would be to hurl Luka in the middle of that. The last thing Abby needed was *another* person asking her the significance and the relevance and the supposed importance blah blah blah of the beer she'd had. "Nah. I can deal with it. Thanks for the offer, though."  
  
-------------------------------------------  
  
Oh, yeah  
  
Everything's all wrong, yeah  
  
Everything's all wrong, yeah  
  
Where the hell did I think I was?  
  
-------------------------------------------  
  
"I don't know, Carter," Abby murmured uncertainly as the cab pulled up to the poignantly familiar building. "I'm not sure all this is necessary."  
  
"You know better than anyone how necessary it is," Carter told her as he shoved a few bills towards the driver. "Come on. I won't make you share, you can just listen today."  
  
Abby frowned. "This is the funniest way of not throwing the program at me I've ever seen," she commented irritably, opening the cab door and stepping onto the curb.  
  
"Hey, you remember how we spent Christmas two years ago," Carter pointed out. He joined her on the curb and stuffed his hands into his pockets as they walked. "You were on me about those pills, you made me tell Weaver, and now look at me."  
  
Abby's steps weren't nearly as brisk as Carter's, and she fell out of stride when her feet began to shuffle. "I pushed you to tell Weaver because I was your sponsor, Carter."  
  
"Oh, come on," Carter responded, turning around with a tiny sly grin. "There was more to it than that."  
  
Abby raised her eyebrow skeptically. The closer they got to that room, the more she resented Carter – and the slower her pace grew, until she was walking several steps behind him. He actually seemed to have some kind of self-righteous glow that pissed her off to no end. "No, not really. I did what I had to do as your sponsor, I helped you, that's all there was to it."  
  
"Right," Carter chuckled, turning around and coolly strolling backwards towards the lighted building. "You're telling me that the only reason you cared about my recovery was because you felt obligated to help as an unbiased caregiver?"  
  
At this point Abby stopped walking altogether, the constant stream of incomprehensible thoughts quieting a little as her forward momentum ceased. Suddenly it didn't matter how much time passed – suddenly she didn't care what she said. As long as Carter would stop walking towards that building, then she would stop feeling like she was moving so damn fast . . . "That's what I'm telling you. I'm sorry if you thought any different, if you thought there were other feelings there, or something . . . I was just doing my job."  
  
Carter finally stopped and Abby felt sudden relief at the halt. She honestly couldn't recall her exact words, just that she'd known what would make him quit walking to that meeting so briskly. And grateful she felt that she had finally found the right button to push to slow this whole thing down.  
  
Yet she hadn't anticipated that stunned look he was treating her with. The good-natured smile had slowly faded from his face, and in his eyes was an accusatory pain that made Abby duck her gaze uncomfortably. She'd seen Carter stunned before, this vague stare that managed to bore into her intensely, but this was different. This time there was no disembodied voice of Paul Sobricki floating up behind him; Mark and Kerry weren't sitting with her as she'd avoided his glare and recanted her tale of forbidden needles; Luka hadn't just answered the door and Abby wasn't trying to conceal a bottle of beer. This time all she had were words to fight him with, to keep herself out of that room, and in the end, it looked like whatever she said had killed him.  
  
After a long moment of silence and an emotional distance rivaled only by the 15 or 20 feet of physical space between them, Carter finally spoke. "I came clean with Weaver because you convinced me it was the right thing to do. If you hadn't been there . . . I don't know what would have happened. I don't want the same thing happening to you."  
  
"You don't have to return any favors, Carter." Her tone was sharp and she regretted not softening her words. Every time he even leaned in the direction of that building, her stomach tensed and she could only think of ways to keep him sedentary. "That's the difference between you and me. You feel like you have to pay me back for something, and I was just following the criteria for sponsorship."  
  
"I'm trying to help you, not fulfill some chore –"  
  
"And when did this become all about you, anyway?" Abby suddenly snapped, crossing her arms over her chest defensively. "I'm the one getting dragged to a meeting against my will, or did you forget that on your quest to Ultimate Carter Spiritual Fulfillment?"  
  
Carter merely exhaled sharply and shook his head. "I'm trying to help," he repeated, not meeting her eyes.  
  
"I don't need help," Abby informed him. "I'm not some charity case for you to donate your time."  
  
"I'm not trying to treat you like a charity –"  
  
"Yes you are!" Abby felt a sudden anger within her, one that only stirred when she'd gone a while, a day, an hour without something to help her relax . . . but now, more than anything, she just wanted to leave.  
  
"You know, believe it or not, there are people in the world who actually care about you!" Carter snapped. "*I* care about you! *I* don't want to see you ruin your life!"  
  
"That's not your choice to make!" Abby shouted, ignoring how loud her voice was getting or how her cheeks were burning furiously. "You're blowing this whole thing way out of proportion!"  
  
Carter snorted at this and turned to face the building behind them. "How about we see if they think I'm blowing this out of proportion?"  
  
Abby shook her head with contempt. "Fuck you, Carter," she muttered, shoving past him and storming down the street. She didn't care where she went, as long as she got away from that room, that meeting, those words and his voice. She couldn't take it anymore.  
  
Goddamn it, she needed a drink.  
  
-------------------------------------------------------  
  
And stranger than your sympathy  
  
Take these things, so I don't feel  
  
I'm killing myself from the inside out  
  
And now my head's been filled with doubt  
  
------------------------------------------------------- 


	2. Possible scene 2

Note: This is the second possible post-scene immediately following "Brothers and Sisters."  
  
---------------------------------------------------------------------------- -  
  
We're taught to lead the life you choose  
  
(All I wanted)  
  
You know your love's run out on you  
  
(All I wanted)  
  
And you can't see when all your dreams aren't coming true  
  
---------------------------------------------------------------------------- --  
  
The sound of a violent clatter caused Abby to sit up in bed abruptly. For a long, tense moment she listened, scanning the silence for another noise, any indication that he was back. Yet there was nothing more, and exasperated, Abby sank back onto the bed. This was what, the third time her heart had stopped at the sound of a rustle outside her apartment? True, each time she never really woke up – it's impossible to wake up if you never really went to sleep in the first place.  
  
No. Screw this. She wasn't getting any sleep anyway, not as long as her hallway had become noisy enough to be a train station. Angrily she tore back the covers and swung her legs over the side of the bed. Pulling on her old white sweater, she found that she was too annoyed at this point to consider what exactly pissed her off more – the fact that she was being kept awake, or the fact that she simply couldn't get to sleep. True, they sounded one in the same, but to Abby they were so different . . .  
  
Slowly, methodically, she tightened each of the locks on her door, her fingers gently grazing the newly replaced chain. Half-heartedly she checked the eyehole for what seemed like the tenth time that night . . . still nothing. The grip of fear was waning, but as in the past, it usually took some assistance for Abby to truly relax.  
  
She flopped onto the sofa and found herself staring at a sight that had only grown more familiar in the moonlight of the last few months. Admittedly, it had been quite a while since she'd seen the bottle half empty – waste not, want not, was the joyous credo that always flashed into her mind as she tipped her head to finish the last drop. But now, when the mere thought of the bittersweet taste was enough to make her crave the smooth glass on her lips, she tucked her chin into the crook of her arm and gently pushed the bottle away.  
  
She couldn't deal with that shit now. Not now.  
  
Carter could throw out all the accusations he wanted, and that was just fine – everyone's entitled to an opinion. He was being a zealot, an overactive protector, and Abby couldn't help but think that some of his vehemence in her treatment had been because he despised Luka so greatly. Why, she'd never know. It amused Abby to see Carter throw his support into the program all of a sudden, when he'd only really gone to the meetings because he was forced to – he'd lose his job otherwise – and even then, he hadn't been too thrilled about being there. And now he expected Abby to roll over and go back to a place she knew she didn't belong? She'd *been* that person before, with the one beer and the two beers and the six beers – she knew who that person was, and she knew how it felt to be that person. And she wasn't that person.  
  
No matter how much Carter's words nagged at her.  
  
But that didn't matter. Carter didn't matter, Brian didn't matter, and whoever was making those noises outside didn't matter. All that mattered was that her locks worked – she'd tested out that chain enough times, pulling the door open, shut, getting her neighbor to kick the door when the chain was on. God, she was obsessing now. All she needed was to relax, settle her nerves . . . things couldn't possibly be as upsetting as they seemed.  
  
Her eyes swept the table once more and settled on the bottle of beer. It would relax her, without a doubt, without fail, without a second thought . . .  
  
But instead she picked up the phone and impulsively called the number of her other source of relaxation – the one person who counted as a presence, an entity, and not a judgmental know-it-all. True, that's because he *didn't* know it all . . . but Abby was content with that. Why drag Luka into this by telling him everything?  
  
The machine picked up and Abby was relieved. What would she say, anyway? It's two am, keep me company, amuse me and let me pretend like I'm not alone in all this?  
  
"Luka, it's me," Abby informed the machine. "You're probably asleep, or at work, or something . . . just wanted to say . . . thanks, for the chain. Yeah. Anyway . . . I'll see you at work, I guess. Bye."  
  
Hmm. Even her one-sided arguments were awkward. That was never a good sign. Before she could control herself she reached over and took a long sip of the beer, then set it back down. See? No craving. It just *helped,* she didn't need it. Showed you, Carter.  
  
And just to show him further, she downed the beer and two others before falling asleep on the couch.  
  
-------------------------------------------------  
  
Oh, yeah  
  
It's easy to forget, yeah  
  
When you choke on the regrets, yeah  
  
Who the hell did I think I was?  
  
-------------------------------------------------  
  
The clock on the VCR informed her that it was almost four am the knock at the door woke her up. First, ceremoniously, she peeked through the eyehole and frowned slightly at the sight on the other side. Abby unhooked the chain, unlocked the locks, opened the door . . . "You didn't have to come over," she told him simply.  
  
"You called me up in the middle of the night and I'm not going to come over to check on you?" Luka asked doubtfully. "I thought maybe . . . you were having trouble, or something."  
  
Abby shook her head and casually leaned against the door. "Nope. Unless insomnia counts as trouble."  
  
He nodded in agreement – their eyes met and each turned away quickly. "So you're all right then?"  
  
She looked up at him and flashed a characteristic tight smile, the blanket that draped whatever needed to be draped. "I'm fine. I'm good. Thanks."  
  
He was staring at the floor for several seconds, and before Abby could end the awkward conversation with a pleasant goodbye, he spoke. "Because Carter seemed worried about you."  
  
Abby's smile slowly faded. He'd been talking to Carter. Great. "Carter overreacts," she told him simply. "He jumps to conclusions."  
  
But he wasn't buying it. "He thinks you . . . have a problem."  
  
It was all Abby could do to not collapse into tears right there. A problem? A *problem?* Was the concept so volatile that Luka couldn't even bring himself to say it? Like abortion – or bipolar – or death, for God's sake? Abby found herself narrowing her eyes at Luka's vague words, and she began to close the door. "Carter doesn't know what he's talking about," Abby muttered, not bothering to attempt a polite conclusion to the conversation.  
  
Luka held out a hand and stopped the door easily. "How much have you had to drink tonight?"  
  
She stared at him in horror. "What the hell kind of question is that?" she demanded. "Did you come here to check up on me, or something? Carter tells you something's wrong and now you've decided he's right? And since when do you and Carter have the right to discuss my life?"  
  
"It was a simple question, Abby." She wasn't comfortable with the depressed sorrow in his eyes, and she looked away. "Have you been drinking tonight?"  
  
"If I was drunk, which I'm not and don't plan on being, I . . ." She trailed off, completely forgetting where she was going with this and remembering that she didn't know in the first place. "You know what, I'm actually really tired, I appreciate your concern, but –"  
  
"Abby, please." His voice was low, but not as pleading as Abby would have thought. "I want to help you."  
  
"I don't need help," she informed him briskly, flashing him the tight smile before she closed and locked the door between them.  
  
"I think you do," came his voice from the other side of the door.  
  
Abby closed her eyes wearily and leaned against the door. "I don't have a drinking problem, Luka," she muttered.  
  
There was silence, and Abby peered out the eyehole to see him staring right back at her. Against every emotion she held dear, Abby slowly unlocked the door and found herself face to face with Luka.  
  
"I think you do," he repeated simply.  
  
----------------------------------------------------  
  
And stranger than your sympathy  
  
And all these thoughts you stole from me  
  
And I'm not sure where I belong  
  
And no where's home and no more wrong  
  
-----------------------------------------------------------  
  
"I have, like, nothing to drink," she called as she inspected the refrigerator. This wasn't entirely true – her eye caught the unopened 12 pack of beer settled on the counter – but something told her that Luka wouldn't be keen on her nursing a beer at this point. Her mind was working quickly with what Carter could have told him . . . how much he could know . . .  
  
"I'm all right." Abby looked over at him on the couch, where he was eyeing the empty glass bottles she'd been too lazy to pick up. At that moment she wasn't sure she dreaded anything more than joining him in the living room.  
  
But she was running out of things to do in the kitchen, and as Luka turned around to face her, she clasped her hands together and stepped over to the sofa. "Sorry about the mess," she apologized meekly, sinking onto the opposite side of the sofa. She felt enveloped in the large sweater, and it was comforting.  
  
Luka watched her for a moment; leaning forward, he took a deep breath. "Carter asked me today if I was stupid, or if I just didn't care about you," he finally murmured. He glanced up at her with a humiliated smile. "I guess I'm stupid."  
  
"No, you're not," Abby sighed, unable to look in his direction. "Carter's being melodramatic."  
  
"I mean, I . . . I noticed you were drinking a little more than usual, but I never thought . . ." Luka shook his head and turned away from her. "I guess it never entered my mind."  
  
In spite of what she knew she shouldn't say, Abby found herself affected by his words. A little more than usual. Seeing as how "usual" while they had been dating was zero alcohol, it would be fairly accurate to say that "a little more" was, well, a beer. "I didn't expect it to," she told him honestly. "I don't go around flaunting my past to just anyone."  
  
Luka glanced at her. "I was under the impression that I was more than just anyone."  
  
"Well . . . yeah . . ." Abby frowned and more than anything, she wished she could be alone.  
  
"How long have . . . had . . . you been sober?" he questioned.  
  
"A few years," Abby murmured.  
  
"How many? Two, three?"  
  
Abby slouched into the couch and became fascinated with her fingernails. "Six."  
  
The miserable sigh from Luka's side of the couch made Abby cringe. "I let you throw away six years," he groaned. "God, I'm so sorry . . ."  
  
"You didn't *let* me do anything," Abby informed him irritably. "You didn't know. And it's not like I'm falling down drunk every night – I had one beer every once in a while. You're not expected to monitor my every behavior."  
  
Luka shook his head and held up the two empty bottles indicatively. "This is more than a beer once in a while."  
  
She rolled her eyes, more than a little annoyed with the direction the conversation was taking. "You're not seriously lecturing me on this."  
  
"I'm not lecturing you," he told her, replacing the bottles on the coffee table. "I'm just . . . overwhelmed."  
  
Abby tilted her head curiously. "*You're* overwhelmed?" she asked incredulously.  
  
"Well, yeah, Abby – this is kind of new to me. We've known each other for so long now, we were together for a year . . . it's like you're a different person. I need some time to get used to it."  
  
Abby nearly choked on her own tongue. "I'm sorry to disappoint you with the truth," she remarked, completely taken aback. "I was perfectly content with the way things were – you're the one who barged over here at 4 in the fucking morning."  
  
"You're the one who called me two hours before that, sounding like you had a gun to your head."  
  
She shook her head discontentedly. "I didn't ask you for anything," she grumbled. "Not your help, not your sympathy, and not your goddamn judgement."  
  
"Abby, I'm not judging you," he argued. "I just . . . don't understand why you felt like you had to hide it from me. It's nothing to be ashamed of –"  
  
"I never said it was," Abby countered evenly.  
  
He glanced up at her and sighed; Abby turned away in disgust. "How does Carter know, then?"  
  
She chuckled wryly and stared up at the ceiling. "I was his sponsor for AA," she told him mildly. "We went to meetings together."  
  
"Riiight." Luka nodded slowly, and Abby crossed her arms over her chest irritably. "So now he's badgering you into, what, giving it up again?"  
  
"It's not as easy as that, Luka," Abby retorted. "You're a doctor for God's sake, you should know that."  
  
"Well, I'm sorry if I'm not as well-versed in all of this as you and Carter," Luka snapped. "I've never dated an alcoholic before, I'm new at this."  
  
Abby was truly rendered speechless. She didn't know which to react to first – the accusation about Carter, the labeling of "alcoholic" . . . "You and I aren't *dating.*"  
  
"Right. I know." Luka muttered. "But you were an alcoholic when we *were* dating. Give me a second to rewrite history here."  
  
"God, what is your problem?" Abby snapped angrily. "You force me to confide in you and now you're completely bitter about it! So I drank a lot when I was married – so what? I have a drink every once in a while, even you can't begrudge me of that."  
  
"I'm not trying to begrudge you of anything. I'm upset because you consciously hid this from me," Luka snapped. "You and Carter had this whole other world that didn't include me in the slightest."  
  
"Oh, please, you're not getting jealous *now,*" Abby scoffed.  
  
"Jealous, no. But I think I have the right to be upset. I opened up to you, I told you everything about myself, and you couldn't be bothered with telling me the truth about yourself."  
  
"Right, you were a regular open book," Abby commented bitterly. "Did it ever occur to you that I wanted to avoid this exact conversation?!"  
  
"You were content with keeping me at an arm's length, and with telling Carter every tiny secret of your life," Luka snapped. "It had nothing to do with your feelings towards me or my reaction."  
  
"Luka, you keep saying 'alcoholic' like you'd say 'leper' or 'mass murderer.'" Abby shook her head and glared at him intensely. "How could I possibly think you'd understand?"  
  
"You never gave me a chance to understand."  
  
Abby really had nothing more to say. Her cheeks were flushed and all her thoughts had collected on the 12 pack of beers on her kitchen counter. She watched as Luka stared intently at his hands, and from where Abby was sitting, it looked like he was clenching his jaw tightly. "I think you should go now," she muttered.  
  
"So you can drink yourself into a coma?" he questioned bitterly. "No."  
  
Abby rolled her eyes and stood up; padding across the apartment, she slowly unlatched the locks and opened the door. "What I do isn't your business anymore," she responded, not looking at him. "Please. Go."  
  
Out of the corner of her eye she could see him slowly stand up, and as he crossed the apartment, he seemed like he was searching for something to say to her. "I just want to help," he murmured, glancing down at her once before reluctantly stepping through the doorway.  
  
"You can't," Abby informed him wryly. "This is all mine. I have to do it."  
  
He was silent, and Abby scowled and shut the door behind him – she locked the locks, latched the chain, and her fingers trailed over the grain of the wooden door. Impulsively she looked out the peephole, just in case Luka was still looking back at her . . .  
  
No. He was gone.  
  
With weary frustration Abby leaned against the door and buried her face in her hands. She didn't need this, she didn't need these thoughts coursing though her brain or these voices screaming in her head. Right or wrong, right or wrong, right or wrong – God, she didn't need this particular internal battle to be fighting. Not now, not ever.  
  
Her gaze shifted to the beers on her counter and for one moment, she could almost feel them pulling her towards them. Her chest tightened and her palms began to sweat, and as she took the first step towards the counter, she heard the way Luka's voice . . . "We've known each other for so long now, we were together for a year . . . it's like you're a different person." Such disgust, such disapproval that he probably didn't know he'd used . . .  
  
"It's not about the beer you had yesterday, or the two you're going to want today, or the six you're going to want tomorrow . . ."  
  
"Goddammit, Abby, you drink every night and hungover every day – this marriage is never going to last if you become a drunk."  
  
"Six years . . . you were sober for six years . . ."  
  
"I let you throw away six years . . ."  
  
"I want a divorce."  
  
"I was under the impression that I was more than just anyone."  
  
"What us, is there an us?"  
  
"You need help, Abby . . ."  
  
"I just want to help . . ."  
  
"Let me help . . ."  
  
"You can't. This is all mine. I have to do it."  
  
The last voice was her own, and Abby stared across the kitchen in absolute bewilderment. There was no way around it . . . goddamn it . . .  
  
Abby sank against the wall, willing the tears away but unable to stop them as they came fast and vengefully. She had a drinking problem. And it was all hers.  
  
And she had to do it.  
  
---------------------------------------------------------------------------- -----------------  
  
And I was in love with things I tried to make you believe I was  
  
And I wouldn't be the one to kneel before the dreams I wanted  
  
And all the dark and all the lies were all the empty things disguised as me  
  
---------------------------------------------------------------------------- -----------------  
  
"There's complimentary coffee and doughnuts in the hall," the man at the front of the room called out above the murmur of the crowd. "Help yourselves, and I hope to see you all here next week!"  
  
Abby slouched in her seat, waiting for the group of people to clear. She wasn't in the mood to push and shove, and she wasn't in the mood for coffee and doughnuts. She'd had enough post-meeting complimentary refreshments to last her a lifetime.  
  
"I thought you might come."  
  
The familiar voice above her should have made her cringe, but instead she looked up to acknowledge his presence. "That's funny, I didn't."  
  
The look in his eyes was completely readable, like always, yet indescribable. Pride? Happiness? It didn't matter – all that mattered was that the glow of self-righteousness she'd feared was nowhere to be seen, and shyly she looked away from his gaze. "So, you up for stale doughnuts and weak coffee?" he asked.  
  
"Not particularly," Abby sighed, standing up and slinging her purse over her shoulder. "I want a sundae."  
  
"What, you want me to give you a reward?" Carter teased. "I think that's against policy."  
  
"I didn't say you had to buy it, or even come," Abby chuckled. "I just said I wanted one."  
  
"Ahh, well that changes everything." He followed her out of the room, and together they walked down the hall. "Would you mind if I came?"  
  
Abby paused, and looked at him contemplatively. "If you do, you're buying," she decided, and continued down the hall.  
  
She felt his hand on her shoulder, but it wasn't a sensual touch, or even a flirtatious gesture. It was amicable, supportive, and in a way, exactly what she needed.  
  
His smile told her that he knew it was what she needed right then. In spite of herself, she smiled back.  
  
------------------------------------------  
  
Stranger than your sympathy  
  
Stranger than your sympathy  
  
------------------------------------------ 


End file.
